


A Little Compassion

by Archedes



Series: ash gray [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff and Smut, M/M, Pre-Canon, Sleepy Cuddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-19 08:43:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7353961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Archedes/pseuds/Archedes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Maybe me n’ Genji’ll have one of those bonding moments. Have a good cry over our missing limbs n’ all.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Compassion

McCree had been involved in various gangs since childhood, and their pecking orders generally went from who could fuck up who the worst and worked their way down from there. Military operations, he soon learned, were just a little bit different. He was not a huge fan of how he was essentially shanghaied into Overwatch, but he supposed he liked the luxury of being able to take a sip of beer without wiping a centimeter of sand and dust off the lip of the can. “You fellas sure keep things shipshape around here,” he commented to Ziegler once as he took in all the chrome and white surfaces in the Zürich base—pristine like they were meticulously cleaned every day. He’d been flown out there about .5 seconds after he had given in to Reyes’s ultimatum.

“Our budget is a little better than your gang’s was.” Ziegler was typing away at her computer and noticeably trying not to sound annoyed by the way McCree was perched on her desk. It was glass-top, and he reckoned his ass would leave a pretty smudge on it once he got up.

“Ain’t that the truth,” McCree said cheerfully, pretending not to notice her tone or the look she shot him out of the corner of her eye when he lit up a cigar. “Though I must admit, it’s a little weird ya’ll are workin’ with an omnic.”

Ziegler lifted her head, visibly confused. “An omnic?” she repeated.

“Y’know. That fella with the—” McCree motioned to his face and then his entire body. “He shoots them little metal stars out of his arm.”

“Genji,” she supplied promptly. “He is not an omnic. What you are referring to are his prosthetics.”

“Oh… Someone sure did a number on him.”

“One could say the same of you.” She looked pointedly at his own prosthetic arm, and he flexed the fingers self-consciously. “I’m sure you of all people would respect the need for a degree of compassion when it comes to such things.”

“Us criminal-types ain’t usually known for our compassion.”

“Fortunately, you are no longer a criminal.” Ziegler was back to her typing; he noticed she was pressing the holokeys more forcefully than before.

“Aw, doc. You know I’ll be on my best behavior. Scout’s honor. I can say that now, right, now that I've gone straight?” Ziegler did not respond, and he could tell he had worn out his welcome about ten minutes ago. “I’ll climb on out of your hair now. Maybe me n’ Genji’ll have one of those bonding moments. Have a good cry over our missing limbs n’ all.”

“I will certainly be here to patch you up afterwards,” Ziegler said dryly, and McCree had to laugh at that. As he thought, there was a nice, big smudge on the desk when he stood up. He tapped one of his prosthetic fingers on it, and it made a nice _clink_.

“You fixed my face up real well after Commander Reyes and his sting got ahold of it. I’ll be sure to count on you again.” He left her with that, sauntering out of her office with one hand shoved in his pocket and the other fiddling with the cigar in his mouth. It was only once he was walking down the hall that he started to reconsider his mild antagonism towards Ziegler. Since he was trapped in this self-righteous organization for the foreseeable future—and really, he didn’t doubt for a second that Reyes wouldn’t throw him in prison the second McCree made too much of a nuisance of himself—he could probably stand to have a few friends.

Ziegler seemed all right enough; reminded him of one of Big Earl’s daughters who used to sew him and his boys up from time to time. She and Reyes were really the only two he had gotten a chance to speak with yet. McCree had had one fantastically dull conversation with the strike commander, and hell if he could remember the guy’s name. He had also seen a behemoth of a man stalking the halls now and then, and his laughter seemed to shake the walls—laughed so much that McCree figured the two of them would get along just fine in time. He was a sucker for folks with a good sense of humor.

That cyborg fella Ziegler was talking about, however, was someone McCree only saw rarely. Never heard him speak neither. It gave McCree the feeling that he liked it best when nobody noticed him or paid him any mind, so of course McCree’s first instinct was to track him down and treat him to some home-cooked McCree-brand hospitality—that may or may not get his nose broken by an Overwatch stooge for the second time in as many weeks, but he was anything if not a man of courage and bold action.

He found Genji in the third floor lounge, his sword laid out across his lap as he sharpened it. A different man might have had a look at that gleaming green blade and taken a moment to think through his words carefully. McCree, though, was happy enough to spit out the first thing that popped into his head. He lifted his hat off his head. “I don’t believe we’ve met. Name’s McCree. Friends call me Jesse. Howdy.”

Genji looked up at him, and for several moments (that were only a little painful), he did not answer. “You are the one Reyes brought in,” he answered finally, slowly. His words were muffled and metallic as they bounced off the inside of his visor. All McCree could do was think in wonder at how he still had a mouth left under all that.

“That’s me. The doc sent me your way. Figured we could swap war stories.” McCree wiggled his prosthetic fingers. Apparently that was the wrong thing to say.

In a heartbeat, Genji was on his feet, his sword in its sheath—though the way he was holding it almost made McCree want to take a step back. He didn’t know much about swords, but he figured he could still get his ass whooped even with the blade covered. “I am afraid I will have to pass,” Genji said coldly, and before McCree could think of what to say next, he was out the door and around the corner.

“Well shit,” McCree said to the empty room.

 

—

 

It wasn’t like he was particularly preoccupied with finding Genji—couldn’t be when it was nearly impossible to find the man, but that was neither here nor there. More of his time was spent going through Blackwatch orientation and trying, in the loosest sense of the word, to stay on his new commander’s good side. Reyes seemed to like it best when McCree kept talking to a minimal, which unfortunately wasn’t going to happen anytime soon once McCree was introduced to his new uniform. It was tight and the flex armor was heavier than he was used to, and he’d be damned if Reyes didn’t know exactly how much he hated it. Reyes had tried to confiscate his hat too, but McCree had made such a fuss that Reyes—begrudgingly—let him keep it.

Genji was sitting in the first floor mess hall, a bowl of some truly foul-looking beige sludge in front of him, when McCree walked in and invited himself to the seat across from him. “Now I know what that is,” McCree declared, propping his chin up on his prosthetic hand. “Had to choke that shit down for a whole year after my surgery so my fleshy bits didn’t go and reject my metal bits. What flavor you got?”

Genji seemed to take a moment to decide whether or not he wanted to respond. “…Chicken,” was his eventual answer, and his reluctance was apparent.

“The worst.”

“Did you need something?”

McCree noticed that Genji still had his visor on, and he looked at him now with renewed interest. Now how was he gonna eat that? “Nothin’ in particular. We got off on the wrong foot the other day. Seemed I hit a sore spot and I wanted to apologize for it.”

“It is fine,” Genji replied curtly.

“Glad to hear it. So…” McCree flicked a piece of lint off of his serape like he didn’t notice how much Genji wanted him to leave. “You from Japan? I knew a man from Kyoto once. Had a mean right hook.”

“I would like to eat alone, if you do not mind.”

“Seems to me like that’s how you do everything around here. Alone.” McCree could feel the dirty look he was being given from under that visor. “My heart goes out to you, kid, more’n anyone. But don’t go making it harder on yourself than it needs to be.”

This time, Genji responded more quickly. “‘Kid’?”

“I’m tryin’ to be compassionate here.”

“I am 29 years old.”

“An’ I’m 31, _kid_. Now eat your gruel before it starts congealing.”

“I will once you leave.”

McCree opened his mouth, something smart on the tip of his tongue, before thinking better of it. Probably best not to push it further. “All right.” He raised his hands, placatory, before standing up. “I can tell when I’m not wanted.”

“ _Can_ you?”

McCree laughed. “One question though, before I go. Now, is it standard issue to give everyone a fine ass like that, or are you a special case?”

“I…what?” McCree had been expecting a cross between anger and annoyance: Genji’s surprise was a surprise. “Are you flirting with me?”

“Well now. That was an honest question I was askin’. Did you want me to flirt with you? I’d be happy to oblige.”

“I would like to eat my lunch.” There was the anger McCree had been expecting. “I’m sure you can find someone else to mock in the meantime.”

“Wait just a minute. I wasn’t mocking—”

“Mockery. Pity. What difference is there?” Genji cut him off, his hand clenched on top of the table. “You and I are nothing alike, and you are delusional if you truly think we are.”

McCree took off his hat and scratched his head, thinking carefully about what to say next. Genji’s words were venomous, and McCree realized he really hadn’t known just how bothered Genji was by his own body. “You’re right,” McCree said finally. “I can’t claim to understand exactly how you’re feelin’, but pity? I don’t reckon someone like me is capable of pity. Frankly, the only reason I’m talkin’ to you is because you seem to be alone here like I am, and I don’t quite like the idea of trying to warm up to Reyes. I’m talkin’ to you out of pure selfishness. I’ll be going.”

It wouldn’t have been the first time McCree gave the wrong message, but he supposed there was nothing for it but to cut his losses and leave before he got saddled with a face-full of chicken flavored slime.

 

—

 

McCree was in the barracks, dozing off in his bunk with his hat tipped over his face, when he heard the door open. He didn’t pay it much mind, more content to just lay there and hope he had another hour to sleep before he got called off to a Blackwatch briefing. He was surprised to find that he was getting nicely accustomed to this sanctioned law-breaking, as contradictory as he found it.

“McCree.” Reluctance weighed his hand down as he slid his hat off of his face and laid it on his chest. It took a second for his eyes to get used to the light, and then it took him a second more to register that it was Genji standing there beside his bed. His arms were folded, and he seemed to be studying something near McCree’s feet.

“Reyes didn’t send you, did he?” McCree asked, yawning into the back of his hand. Initially, he wanted to make some flirtatious quip about how he must have been dreaming since it wasn’t everyday he had a handsome man come to his bed. But he figured that would have been about as well-received as his last coy remark.

“No. I came to apologize for my outburst last week.”

“Think nothin’ of it. I sure ain’t.”

“It did not occur to me that you were lonely.”

“Hey now. I _ain’t_ lonely.”

“Isn’t that what you said?”

“I don’t recall. I can’t see your face, by the way, so you don’t have to be lookin’ all the way down there at my socks.”

Genji turned his face to McCree. “Were you flirting with me before?”

“I suppose I was.”

“Why?”

McCree shrugged. “Why not?”

“You do not even know what I look like.”

“Let me guess. You’re the type to only go after the pretty ones, huh?” When Genji did not immediately answer, McCree grinned. “Shallow, are you? Lucky for you I’m rather handsome, if I do say so myself.”

“You’re all right,” Genji said vaguely, wiping the grin off of McCree’s face. “I was better looking.”

“You sayin’ I wouldn’t be attractive enough for you?”

“Perhaps if you shaved…”

“Listen here. The beard’s part of my rugged cowboy look. Wouldn’t be complete without it.” Genji actually laughed at that, and for a second McCree thought he was hearing things. He wondered what Genji’s face would have looked like, laughing. Hell, he didn’t even know if that visor came off.

“What?” Genji prompted, and that cagey edge had seeped back into his voice, like he was waiting for McCree to turn on him.

“I was just thinkin’ that you had a mighty fine laugh,” McCree said sweetly, and Genji made a noise. It was muffled by the visor, but McCree figured it for a scoff. “I’m bein’ serious.”

“We will have to continue this another time,” Genji said, and this time McCree couldn’t make out his tone. It was measured and gave nothing away. “I have an assignment. Goodbye, McCree.”

“Jesse.”

Genji tilted his head again but said nothing, and when he walked away McCree truly did wonder if that was Genji’s real ass under that artificial muscle. It must have been, or Ziegler was a wilder lady than McCree had pegged her for.

 

—

 

He chalked it up to a fluke the first time, but the second time Genji came looking for him, McCree’s usually-impeccable aim went to all hell. The shooting range echoed each time one of his bullets missed the target droid and embedded itself in the back wall. “Sonova bitch…” he swore under his breath, unable to stop himself from glancing back where Genji was walking down the line of firing lanes. By his fifth missed shot, McCree had given up and started unloading his revolver, spinning the empty barrel around restlessly.

When Genji stopped at his cubicle, McCree took his earmuffs off and spent a minute digging the earplugs out. Genji waited patiently, shuffling through what looked like a stack of old photographs. Some were bent and tinged with black, and the way Genji clung to them gave McCree reason to think he had been through a hell of a lot to get them.

“Howdy,” McCree said once he could hear again, trying to take covert peeks at the pictures. “Those for me?” He noticed that, for the first time since he got there, he was seeing Genji without his armored exoskeleton on. His arms and legs were smooth, dark synthetic fiber that seemed to agree just fine with the loose grey sweats he had on.

“They are photographs of me. From before,” Genji said in that same measured tone he had used before: the one that was really starting to grind on McCree’s nerves.

McCree laughed. “What? You here to prove a point?”

“Yes.” Genji held the photos out to him.

McCree rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he eyed the green slit in Genji’s visor. “Well shoot. I don’t really know how to say this. Don’t go n’ take this the wrong way now, but I find myself a bit more interested in what you look like now. ‘Before’ don’t matter much to me.”

“What?”

“That Genji—” He motioned vaguely at the photos without looking down at them, “—well, I don’t know him, now do I? Might as well be a perfect stranger, far as I’m concerned. I’ve been flirtin’ with _you—_ prosthetics n’ all—not some fella you used to be.” Feeling reckless, McCree tapped on Genji’s chest with one metal finger. “We ain’t all shallow like you, kid. Some of us are content to just get our kicks where we can find them.”

Genji regarded the photos himself for a moment before slipping them into his pocket. Like before, his mood changed without warning. “You want to see so badly?” he practically demanded, a savage edge creeping over the end of the question as he gripped his visor with one hand. There was a hiss of steam as the locking mechanism opened, and in one fluid motion the visor was off and McCree was looking at a pair of brown eyes—warm and honeyed despite the anger that lurked within them.

His face wasn’t bad, McCree thought as his eyes followed the line of gray synthetic flesh and metal that marked where Genji’s jaw had been reconstructed. Genji’s skin—his real skin—was pale and sickly from lack of sunlight, lacerated through and through with violent, dark red scars. McCree’s expression was schooled as he had his look, but that only seemed to make Genji’s face twist in frustration. “Hideous, is it not?” he asked, icy and furious.

“Dunno. My eyesight’s not what it used to be. Could you come a little closer?” McCree said, hooking his thumbs through the loops of his pants. Genji considered him for a moment, his brows knitting in a way McCree appreciated thoroughly. Then he moved forward, completely boxing McCree into the cubicle until the counter was digging into the small of his back. His expression reminded McCree of a snarling dog aching for a reason to bite.

But an impulsive thought came to him, and McCree couldn’t help the little smile that crept up on him. He only had to lean down to place a light kiss on the tip of Genji’s nose. That gave Genji pause, and for a while the two of them just looked at each other: McCree, entirely too pleased with himself, and Genji, his eyebrows furrowing as—McCree guessed—he tried to discern whether or not he was being fucked with. “I’ll admit,” McCree began, his voice low in a way that caused Genji’s eyes to drop to his lips. “Teasing you is the most fun I have around here, darlin’, but don’t think I’m not willin’ to put my money where my mouth is.”

If he expected Genji to blush, McCree was sorely disappointed; the disappointment soon turned to confusion as, in a flash, Genji’s mask was back in place and there was a respectable distance between them once more. Before he could protest, Reyes was there, oblivious as all hell as he strolled up to McCree’s firing lane. “McCree, were you planning on coming to the briefing sometime today?” Reyes growled, glancing down to Genji for but a moment before deciding he didn’t care and returning his dark gaze to McCree.

“I was considerin’ it,” McCree answered pleasantly, and he tugged a little at his collar to dispel some of the heat he hadn’t noticed gathering there. Now that was new for him; it wasn’t often that he was the one being affected while his current object of interest was cool as could be. He turned to Genji, tipping his hat at him. “That’s my cue. I’d love to finish this little chat of ours later.”

McCree looked up in time to see Reyes rolling his eyes, but Genji himself remained silent. McCree only shrugged lightly before trailing after his CO. When they got to the door of the shooting range, McCree glanced back, but Genji was already gone.

 

—

 

Genji was on a couch in the third floor lounge when McCree found him two weeks later. He was still in his Blackwatch uniform, and it reeked of blood and sweat—a mixture McCree couldn’t quite say he hated, if he was being honest with himself. Parts of the body armor—particularly the chest plate—were riddled with holes. Most of the bullets had fallen out on his way up to the third floor, but a few were embedded firmly in the reinforced ballistic fiber. If Genji was surprised to see him in such a state, he did not show it; he merely looked at him from over the top of the tablet he was reading. McCree was mildly pleased to see that Genji didn’t have his own body armor on.

“I’m here to finish that chat,” McCree declared, his voice a little shaky from the adrenaline that was still coursing through him. His grin was wild, and it only grew wilder when Genji put his tablet aside. He was taking a risk, but his head was still muddled up from the very recent scuffle he had been in, and there was really only one thing on his mind.

“Perhaps you should see Angela first,” Genji said slowly, though he did not move when McCree flopped down onto the couch beside him. McCree didn’t realize his lip was split until he grabbed Genji—roughly—by the chin and pressed a hard kiss against his visor, leaving a red smear behind when he pulled back. “McCree.” Genji carefully removed the hand from his chin, his tone not quite as measured as he probably wanted it to be.

“Jesse,” McCree corrected, and it wasn’t lost on him how Genji had yet to release his wrist. He gripped it tightly, and McCree figured it would have hurt if it wasn’t his prosthetic Genji was holding onto. “I’ll be needing that back if I’m gonna get this armor off. Unless you’d be willin’ to help me out with that, darlin’.”

McCree led his hand to one of the clasps at his side, and Genji hesitated for a second before undoing it. Together, they peeled McCree’s chest plate off. The collared button-down underneath was caked with blood and sweat; he must have gotten grazed, but McCree could feel no pain as he shrugged the shirt off. Genji’s hands were cold against his bare skin, but he no longer needed McCree’s direction, though his touch was light and tentative as his fingers drifted down his abdomen before tugging insistently on McCree’s belt.

Genji paused for a moment. “What is B-A-M-F?”

“Don’t worry about it.” McCree slipped a hand under Genji’s sweatshirt, surprised to find both warm flesh and chilled metal underneath. Most of his chest was artificial, though patches of scarred skin on his sides and stomach were left intact. McCree grabbed at his visor again with his free hand. “You mind?” he breathed as he all but pushed Genji into the couch.

Genji lifted his hands, and with another hiss and the sound of mechanical clicking, his visor came off. Impulsively, McCree wanted to fling it across the room, but through the haze of adrenaline and hunger, he thought better of it and instead set it gently on the floor. Genji pulled off the helmet, revealing short-cropped black hair laced through with scars. One of his ears was gone, and that entire side of his head was all metal plating and synthetic nerve-endings and receptors. When McCree leaned in to press a kiss to it, he felt his hat tip back off his head, though he forgot about it the moment Genji’s arm slid around him, pulling them flush together.

“Fuck, you’re strong,” McCree groaned as he gripped the outside of Genji’s thighs, pulling them apart so he could grind against him. Genji grunted, his breath hot against McCree’s ear. “You won’t crush me, will you, sugar?”

“No promises.” McCree felt a hand gripping at his hair, and his head was pulled back. Genji’s face was flushed, something in his eyes reflecting McCree’s own adrenaline-fueled need. When Genji kissed him, he saw stars.

Genji was unrelenting, sucking and biting—pulling his hair whenever McCree tried to overpower him—until he felt like he would come apart right there like some sort of goddamn high schooler. His lip stung, but he barely felt it. When Genji’s hand gripped at him through his pants, McCree cursed, wrenching himself back. Blood covered Genji’s mouth, lips stained red, and the smile on his face was heated and self-satisfied. It almost had McCree going back for more. Almost. “Cheeky little thing,” McCree growled, hooking his fingers in the waistband of Genji’s sweats and yanking them down.

There was a trail of black hair leading out from where his chest piece ended. Genji was already hard, and he groaned deliciously when McCree gave him a few quick strokes with his good hand. “Been awhile, kid?” he asked, pressing his thumb against the tip in a way that made Genji’s hand tighten in his hair.

Before Genji could respond, McCree plucked the hand out of his hair and moved, narrowly avoiding Genji’s attempts to pull him back in. There was a split second where he looked into Genji’s eyes, could see them hooded with want, before he dipped his head and ran his tongue along Genji’s length. McCree heard a ragged sigh right before he felt hands—both of them now—tangling in his hair again, metal fingertips scraping against his scalp. When he took him into his mouth, he glanced up again. Genji’s eyes were shut tight, and all McCree could taste was blood-tinged salt.

McCree focused on the tip, wrapped his good hand around the rest and worked him until Genji lifted one of his hands, trying to stifle a moan with it. McCree thought he heard his name at one point, in the midst of scattered Japanese words muttered in a throaty voice that had McCree hastily trying to undo his belt with his free hand. His prosthetic felt like ice against him, and McCree grunted, his tongue curling underneath Genji.

The hand in his hair gave a painful tug, but Genji was already coming—high strung from the moment McCree kissed his visor, he had already lasted longer than McCree thought he would. He pulled back, waiting for Genji to open his eyes before meticulously licking his lips, watching the way Genji's gaze locked onto him as he did it. Genji closed them again, and McCree leaned down to grope around on the floor for his shirt. As he used it to wipe himself off, he was painfully aware of his own lingering problem and how good Genji looked, bloody as he was. Genji must have noticed too, because he was sitting up now, slipping his sweats back up around his hips. “Let me,” he said before pausing and looking at his own hand with a frown.

“S’all right,” McCree groaned, mortified that just the prospect of Genji touching him had his hips rolling forward against his will.

When Genji lowered his mouth onto him, McCree had to stop from thrusting into him, tried to keep himself busy by smoothing his hands over Genji’s hair, fingers rubbing over the scars and plate. Genji hummed around him, and the sensation was almost too much. McCree was at the edge; all he needed now was one good push. It didn’t take him long, however, to realize that Genji would much rather tease him.

Genji’s tongue caressed his tip, and every time his lips closed over him, McCree rocked his hips. Much to McCree’s frustration, Genji was intent on not using his hands, instead keeping them anchored to McCree’s waist so he could control the strength of his thrusts. Genji kept a slow pace, moving his head gently and pulling back every time McCree felt like he was on the verge of coming. Now that Genji had been sated, it seemed he was content to take his time, and McCree was sure he was losing his damn mind. “Genji…” he growled, straining against the strong hands holding his hips in place.

Frustratingly, Genji lifted his head completely, giving him a light smile, his lips swollen and still stained with McCree’s blood. Mindlessly, McCree grabbed him by the collar of his sweatshirt and dragged him forward, smashing his mouth against him and drinking him in hungrily. McCree tasted himself, and when he tried to push Genji down beneath him, he was met with rigid resistance. Genji bit his split lip, made him hiss in pain as he found himself being shoved onto his back. Genji straddled him, leaning forward until McCree’s dick was pressed up against his stomach where his chest piece ended and his bare skin began.

When McCree tried to touch himself, he found his hand jerked up and pinned on the couch near his head. Genji’s weight bore down on him, and McCree was overwhelmed—his dick rubbing against Genji as Genji devoured him, matched his own lust blow for blow. When McCree finally came, the fumes he had been running on since his mission ended abandoned him. Genji pulled back, and all McCree could do was look at him blearily as he laid beneath him.

“No smart comment?” Genji asked, his breathing a little heavy compared to the way McCree was practically panting.

“Mm,” was all McCree could manage, and Genji laughed as he used McCree’s shirt to wipe the both of them off before discarding it onto the floor. What little energy McCree had left, he used to lift himself up off the couch so he could get his crushed hat from underneath him. He straightened it out before putting it on Genji’s head. “Lay down,” he ordered huskily, and with the brim pinched between his thumb and forefinger, Genji rested his chin on McCree’s chest. Then McCree closed his eyes, one hand behind his head while the other skirted the length of Genji’s body, slipping beneath his sweat pants before settling comfortable on his ass. He gave it a squeeze for good measure, but Genji only hummed in response. McCree could feel eyes on him, and he pictured Genji peering at him from under his hat. He was almost tempted to open his eyes and see for himself, but even that seemed beyond him at the moment.

 “Don’t fall asleep,” Genji said quietly after a few minutes of silence. “We cannot stay here.”

“S’all right,” McCree mumbled, the last syllable breaking off into a yawn. “Won’t nobody come lookin’ here this time of night. Just…stay there, like that.”

Sleepily, McCree moved his legs so that Genji was resting between them, and he was unbelievably warm, draped as he was across McCree’s bare chest. The hard pressure of Genji’s chin disappeared and was soon replaced by the much softer feeling of his cheek laying against him. He could feel Genji’s prosthetic jaw, and that was warm, too. “You all right?” McCree asked suddenly, on an impulse. Or maybe it’s because he noticed the way Genji kept his arms firmly on the couch, where they were not touching McCree.

“I…yes,” Genji murmured. “I felt…human, for a moment. I would not mind doing this again.”

“That makes two of us, darlin’.”

 

—

 

“Before I let you all go, I have one more announcement to make.” The strike commander eyed the room. In the back, McCree was trying his damnedest not to fall asleep, though he had grabbed a seat behind the ape just in case. “To be frank, I couldn’t care less about what you all do in your free time. Just keep your…fraternizations…out of the lounges, all right? Makes my job a little less painful, since none of you had to explain to the piranhas in the UN treasury why you had to throw away a couch.”

**Author's Note:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


End file.
